milk-white shoulders.
After the formal greetings had been exchanged, the usual small talk began. Since all the others were known to each other, it centered upon Charlotte and Jack Radley, and Charlotte concentrated on giving answers that made sense factually and were also in keeping with the character she had created for herself. She was supposed to be a young woman of modest means and good breeding, and, naturally, in search of a husband. Maintaining this role required all her attention, and it was not until they were at dinner round a table gleaming with silver and crystal, partaking of a rather too salty soup, that she was able to take time to observe the rest of the company.
The conversation was still very general: comments upon the unpleasantness of the weather, then minor points of news-nothing political or even remotely contentious-and then remarks about a play that most of them had seen. Charlotte replied only when good manners demanded, which gave her time to think. She might not get this opportunity again, so she must take full advantage of it.
The things she hoped to discover were few, but they would add to the little she had learned from Pitt. How long had Julian Danver and Veronica been acquainted? Did their love predate Robert York’s death, and thus cause it? Was Julian Danver an ambitious man, either in his profession or socially? Was there a noticeable difference in their financial status, so that money might have been a motive, either for Veronica or for him?
Charlotte had grown up in a home where quality was intensely admired, even on those occasions when it could not be afforded. It was one of a well-bred young lady’s attributes that she should be able to distinguish the excellent from the merely good, and naturally also its cost. She had been in the hall and withdrawing room of the York house, and she judged that they had had money long enough to be comfortable with it. There was none of the tendency to show off which so often accompanied recent acquisition. They felt no necessity to parade new furnishings or decorations, or put objets d’art in prominent positions.
Of course, she was quite aware that people’s circumstances can change; she had seen many houses with fine rooms where guests were received, while the rest of the building lacked even a carpet and grates did not know a fire from one Christmas to another. And some prefer to keep a full complement of servants while they themselves eat barely enough to keep alive, rather than be seen to have a poor establishment. But Charlotte had noticed the women’s clothes. They were of the latest cut and there were no worn places on cuffs or elbows; nothing had been altered to fit another season, or turned to hide patches. And she had done enough of that kind of thing herself to know precisely where to look for the telltale needle holes, the slightly different shading of fabric.
Now as she pretended to listen to the conversation across the table, she glanced as discreetly as she could at the dining room and its furnishings. The whole effect was silver and blue, pale on the immaculate wallpaper, dark royal blue in the curtains, which seemed to be without the usual faded marks that the sun so quickly made in blues, which meant they were not above a season old. Perhaps that indicated a tendency to extravagance? There was a painting of a Venetian scene on the wall opposite her, but Charlotte could not tell whether it was excellent or merely agreeable. The table itself was mahogany, or at least the legs were; the top was completely covered by crisp damask of heavy quality. The chairs and two sideboards were of the Adam style, and might well be genuine.
After checking that no one was watching her, she took a quick glance to see the hallmark on the reverse of her silver spoon. Perhaps the salty soup was a mere mischance; even the best people could have an accident with a cook. Perhaps they even liked it like this.
She considered the women’s clothes again with an eye to cost as well as to the indications to character they might show. Presumably both Harriet and Aunt Adeline, as unmarried women, were dependent upon Garrard for their support. Adeline’s gown did not have the panache of high fashion, but then nothing she wore ever would; she was not that kind of person, and Charlotte guessed she never had been. Nonetheless, the dress was well cut and of excellent fabric. Much the same could be said of Harriet’s gown.
No, unless there was some hidden factor, some inheritance or the like, it did not seem as if money entered into the match.
“Don’t you, Miss Barnaby?”
She realized with a start that Felix Asherson was talking to her-but what on earth had he said?
“I find Mr. Wagner’s operas a little long-winded and I am tired some time before the end,” he repeated, looking at her with a slight smile. “I prefer something rather closer to life, don’t you? I don’t care for all this magic.”
“I’m not surprised,” Aunt Adeline put in suddenly, before Charlotte had time to find an answer. “There’s enough of it we can’t avoid as it is.”
Everyone stared at her, and Charlotte was totally confused. The remark seemed to make no sense.
“He said ‘magic,’ Aunt Addie,” Harriet said quietly. “Not ‘tragic’ ”
She did not seem in the least put out. “Oh, really? I don’t care for the magic element very much. Do you, Miss Barnaby?”
Charlotte swallowed. “I don’t think so, Miss Danver. I am not sure that I ever met with it.”
Jack coughed discreetly into his napkin, and Charlotte knew he was laughing.
Julian smiled and offered her more wine. A footman and two maids served the fish course.
“Unrequited love seems to be the theme of a great many operas and plays,” Charlotte said to break the silence. “In fact, it is almost a necessity.”
“I suppose it is something most of us can imagine, even if we have been fortunate enough not to feel it,” Julian answered.
“Do you think such tales are true to life?” Charlotte asked gently, watching his face for sympathy or contempt.
He gave her the courtesy of a thoughtful answer. “Not in detail. Drama has to be condensed, or as Felix says, it becomes too boring; our attention is short. But the emotions are real, at least for some of us-” Suddenly he stopped and looked down at the table, then quickly up again at her. In that moment she found herself liking him. He had said something he had not meant to, but she was certain his embarrassment was not for himself-there was no anger or resentment in it at all-but for someone else at the table.
“My dear Julian,” Garrard said irritably. “You are far too literal. I don’t suppose Miss Barnaby intended anything so grave.”
“No, of course not,” Julian agreed quickly. “I apologize.”
Charlotte was intensely aware that they were talking about something real and known to both of them. It had to be either Adeline or Harriet. Harriet was past the age when one might have expected a personable and well-bred woman of sound financial prospects to marry. Why had they not arranged a suitable match for her?
Charlotte smiled charmingly; her warmth was quite truly felt. “Indeed, I was only thinking, as you were, that too much magic or coincidence spoils one’s belief in the story, and therefore one’s emotional rapport with the characters. It was quite a trivial remark.” She plunged on. “Mrs. York has been kind enough to invite me to go and view the winter exhibition at the Royal Academy with her. Have any of you been yet?”
“I went,” Sonia Asherson said mildly. “But I can’t say that I recall anything in particular.”
“Any portraits?” Aunt Adeline inquired. “I love faces.”
“So do I,” Charlotte agreed. “As long as they are not idealized so that all the flaws are removed. I often think the true character lies in those lines and proportions that depart from the classic-where the individuality is revealed, and the marks of experience.”
“How perceptive of you,” Aunt Adeline said with sudden pleasure, and for the first time she looked with interest directly at Charlotte. Charlotte realized at once what a vivid creature lived inside the thin, rather quaint exterior. How shallow to judge from smooth, conventional looks, like Sonia Asherson’s. Instinctively her eyes went to Felix. How trivial of him to have preferred a bland creature like Sonia rather than someone unconventional but full of feeling, like Harriet.
But perhaps he didn’t. She had no right to assume he was happy; anything might lie behind Felix’s polished manners and elusive face. This was another line of thought altogether, Charlotte reminded herself, and nothing to do with Veronica York, or Robert’s death.
“It was so kind of Mrs. York to invite me to accompany her,” Charlotte repeated a little abruptly. She must keep the conversation to the point. “Do you know, does she paint? I like portraits, but I love those delicate watercolor pictures some travelers make so clearly and with such sensitivity that you can imagine yourself there. I recall some wonderful pictures of Africa; I could almost feel the heat on the stones, so well was it drawn.” They were all looking at her now; right round the table their faces were turned towards her. Sonia Asherson was clearly
